Blow Out The Sun
by weeeell
Summary: Grantaire/Éponine. One-shot. Fluff.


_**A/N:**__ I shall give credit where credit is due. This whole fic was inspired by a line from one of cheyenneasaur's own fics. (She's a genius guys, go read her crap!) Do I have to tell you that I am very much in love with the Éponine/Grantaire shipping? No? Well, I do have a lot of feelings, if you'd like me to-oh, yes. On with the fic!_

* * *

"Would someone please blow out the sun, for me?" Grantaire moaned after waking up to a blinding eyeful of burning brilliance.

"Your wish is my command, sir." a rough voice floated to his ears, causing him to jolt into a sitting position, only to be pulled down by the force of Dionysus. He had not done something stupid again, had he? He did not have the time to deal with ANY possessive and/or masochistic blondes today; he was feeling rotten and extremely hungover.

"Farewell, then, oh Valiant Sun." the voice ventured out into the silence of the room, and he knew in an instant that this was no one-night stand. "You guarded the ungrateful Earth faithfully and now you may reap your well-deserved rest." A ghost of a breath drifted to his face as she, presumably, blew out the sun.

He opened his eyes, disregarding the sun that had so plagued him just moments before. He ached to know to whom this voice, this angelic, though decidedly human voice, belonged to.

A hand- not his own-went to his eyes, staying only for a moment before withdrawing their cool and collected touch. He took this as a sign, and did not attempt to open his eyes again. He knew that he, being such a lowly life, would be burned instantly on beholding the beauty of this ethereal night-or was it day?-visitor.

And, something more. Something he was forgetting. He knew this feeling, this voice, but he could not place it for the life of him. Had he woken up to this more than once? _Merde. _He truly could not remember, but something itched at the back of his brain.

"Don't fret, Monsieur." She chuckled. "You may open your eyes, if you deem yourself ready."

_Well,_ _Grantaire,_ he asked himself, _you ready, mon ami?_ And he dared. He opened his eyes.

He was greeted with the crinkle of a nose. _Éponine's nose._

"Mon dieu!" he exclaimed, nearly jumping at the sight of her face tantalizingly close to his.

"Not what you were expecting, eh?" she sneered, though her sneer did not reach her eyes. She was quite a good actor, and he knew what he was talking about, being raised the son of a rich opera-fanatic. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Éponine…" his voice trailed off. So many questions. "What are you doing in my house?" That being the first.

"What, no 'hello'?" she snorted, waving a bent bobby pin in his face. "Perhaps you should invest in some quality locks, monsieur."

He let out a low chuckle that gave way to a hearty, albeit a little drunk-sounding laugh. He didn't even know what he found so funny in her sentence, but it was decidedly hilarious.

"Oh," he heaved between sobs for breath, "I haven't laughed that way since… well, ever!"

He sat up, staring her in the eye. He may have been a drunkard, but he could hold his own in a glaring contest, among other things.

"Now, answer truthfully," he said, sighing, the way one does after a good laugh. "What **are** you doing on my bed at-" he glanced at his bedside clock, "6 in the morning?"  
She fidgeted, obviously debating whether or not to answer truthfully.

"Oh, hell," she muttered, throwing her hands up in the air in defeat. "I was lonely, okay! I'm a human being, and I get, well, lonely."

He blinked. "And here I thought you were some kind of angel sent to take me away!"

It was her turn to burst out laughing, and he couldn't help but notice her outrageously adorable dimples.

"Me, an angel? Please." Still, the notion seemed to entertain her. "I am no more an angel, Monsieur, than you are straight."  
His eyebrows shot up. "Well, that leaves a lot to be found out." He quipped, and soon they were both rolling on the bed, clutching their sides with tears rolling down their cheeks.

After they had laughed a near fatal amount, they both lay there, quietly contemplating the others' presence.

"Éponine," Grantaire began, tucking a loose curl away from her face, "You're beautiful."

"So are you." She whispered, bringing her lips to his forehead.

Grantaire never did find out that the reason she had come to him was for comfort, a shelter from her world, and he did not need to. For he had, without words, become exactly what she needed.

It became a regular occurrence, a routine almost, for him to wake up to her face, to her dimples, to that crinkle above her nose, staring him in the face.

The drunkard and the loveless gamine had both met their match.


End file.
